


Enucleation

by tokyonightskies



Series: adversity builds character: uchiha-centric [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, Gore, Murder, Mutilation, Torture, Uchiha Massacre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6831850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>enucleation:</p><p>a removal of the eyeball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enucleation

**Author's Note:**

> i take it i am not the only one who was utterly disappointed with izumi’s death scene in the anime. so i made it better. although interpretations of the word ‘better’ might vary, ofc.
> 
> ost: voodoo in my blood by massive attack ft. young fathers

Dirt sticks to her bare elbow, a cool gravelly layer that she can’t wipe off, resigned to struggle helplessly on the ground. The impact of her shuriken cleaved cracks into the pillar of the police force’s entrance; the building gleams an eerie greenish gray in the dark of night, the scratch her kunai made as its blade skidded over the stone shines silver in the moonlight, and the other one she threw imbedded itself stuck into the pillar. Her breathing is uneven, grows even more ragged when the stranger pushes the sole of his right foot down on her stomach, testing in its pressure. She finds herself unable to speak, any ability of speech dying down her dried-up throat, as she shakes her head wildly. His foot shifts, presses down on her throat then. With the side of his foot, he nudges her chin up until she can only see the night sky above her.

Izumi hopes he’ll push down harder, crush her windpipe in brute force, having forsaken the unrealistic scenario Itachi will show up to rescue her as soon as it came to her. Tears well up in her eyes as the pressure intensifies briefly, almost in a tease. She never should’ve engaged, the thought is intrusive, mocking, tone scathing, _should’ve never turned your back, should’ve run **faster**. _ Beneath her, the ground is moist, sticking to her tunic, the back of her legs, to the elbow guard she wears on her left arm; someone swapped her stomach out with a chunk of ice and the metal of the chain marks her skin with its imprint. She tries to swallow reflexively but the sole of his sandal is sturdy especially posed down flat on her throat.

Her gag reflex involuntarily plays up; her chin jerks up violently, her eyelids flutter open and close rapidly in spasm, leaving her lower eyelid wet from tears, her shoulders buckling upwards. He lets up then, brings his foot back next to the other and stares down at her from the small hole in his mask. Izumi coughs pathetically, small choked sounds, her sweaty cheek cushioned by her hair and the dirt. His footsteps are soft, accompanied by the low rattle of the chain in his hand. He’s on her right side now, then he brackets her waist between his feet, squatted above her abdomen. She can feel the sweep of his coattails over her knees, his imagined weight on her body.

With gloved fingertips, he moves her head back, tilting it from the side to full-frontal. Well-worn leather flakes apart over the line of her jaw. Her exhale comes out stuttered, the tears now sliding freely from the corners of her eyes, the rise and fall of her chest labored. He curves his palm over the expanse of her left cheek, the tip of his index coming to cover her mole. Izumi wants to push herself up on her elbows, but the metal digs in deep, bruises her skin red, and she’s certain any attempt at retaliation would be reciprocated. Her heartbeat thuds away impatiently between her ears. She wishes she could move up her hips and wind her legs around his torso to maneuver him away from her, but the position is too precarious.

He pushes his thumb down on the outline of her eye socket, positions his index just above her eyeball and pulls the skin of her brow up, tugging along her upper eyelid. Her eyeball rolls from left to right in the socket, before locking onto his covered face. Under the almost unnaturally bright moonlight, the red irises look lighter, paler, give away to the stark black pressure of the tomoe. She can hear him shift, the side of his right foot now pressed against her ribcage. Her mouth opens, but the only sound that leaves her is a curtailed whimper, the promise of a _please_. With painstaking precision, Izumi watches how his other hand comes closer and closer, until the pad of his thumb draws under and the tip of his index shifts over the curve of her eyeball.

 _It burns_ , her nerves short-circuit violently as he digs both his forefinger and middle finger into her eye socket, skim over the flesh there, grasp at the back, and then he pulls her eyeball clean out. There’s a sickening _squelch_ , the disconnect between the optic nerve and her brain, a raw hollow that leaves her entire body trembling in its wake. Her right leg kicks out in instinct, in pain. Her vision is unbalanced, but there’s hardly any time for her to adapt to the acute lack of her left eye. Izumi yammers lowly, like a wounded animal that’s hiding itself in the bushes, but there’s an incoherent verbosity to the sounds she makes, a succession of _no’s_ and _please_. Blood slick and fresh, more pressing than the chains around her arms and waist, than the foot prodding against her side.

Her eyeball looks so small, pinched between his gloved fingertips. There’s a crash of nausea that overtakes her, but the moment she bucks up, he pushes his palm flat to her collarbone, keeps her back down. Izumi chokes on the bile coating her tongue, the taste acrid and sour and a trail of yellowish spit drips down the corner of her mouth. Her skin is covered in goosebumps. He pushes her back down onto the ground, his movements automatic and well-rehearsed. _I can’t breathe_ , she smacks her lips together, the bile heavy against the back of her throat. His left hand knots itself into her hair and he forces her head to the side; the vomit gets spat onto the ground, next to her, wet and sickly-smelling.

Izumi’s left gasping as he pushes aside his tunic to show off a small rectangular lacquer case hanging on his belt. Her mind reverts back into itself; her father’s palms over her eyes when she was a child, temporarily blinded to the world aside from his voice. _Izumi, who’s here?_ She can barely hear the click of the case opening. _Izumi, who is behind you?_ Her hollow eye socket sears, exposed to the crisp night air from the inside, an ache that overtakes all her other senses. She misses the warmth of her father’s hands, _where are her father’s hands?_

His left thumb drags down the lower lid of her right eye. Her right foot starts to tap uncontrollably on the ground, flattening the earth with the heel of her sandal. She wails pitifully when his index pushes up the skin on her brow. _Please stop just stop please_. Did those words ever leave her mouth or were they just chiseled in the gray matter of her brain, she doesn’t know, she can only focus on the leather flaking over her sclera as his fingers slide over the curvature of her eyeball. Izumi tries to burrow the back of her head into the earth, but the ground doesn’t give, remains unyielding. His thumb, index and middle fingers form a claw, enclosing her eyeball. All that it takes for him is a flick of the wrist, one _yank_ , to sever her optic nerve from her socket.

She doesn’t scream, mute from the sudden pain, mouth open-wide, nostrils flared. Her body goes slack, arms making a dull thud as they fall to her sides, accompanied by the almost playful rattle of the chains. It’s like the night sky swallowed up the building of the police force, the masked figure, the stars and the moon. Her sockets are raw, the flesh burning from pain, the blood palpable and her heart keeps hammering away in her chest, deafening in its audacity. _Izumi, who’s behind you?_ Her neck is slick from sweat, her nose stuffed with the smell of her own puke. When her father put his hands to her eyes, she could still see the light through the cracks of his fingers, was comforted with the knowledge everything was there, still.

He moves, Izumi can tell by the low grind of his sandals over the gravel, by the jingle jangle of the metal chain, the almost inaudible sweep of his coattails. Is he just going to leave her here? Stripped bare of all what made her valuable to her clan? Her muscles go slack, her legs flat on the dirt. Suddenly a frantic panic overtakes her when she hears the low click of the case being opened and she rolls onto her side, ignoring how the metal presses into her skin. Huddling her knees together, bunching them upwards to her chest, she lies there hyperventilating. Her hair must be getting tangled into the puke but she can’t _see_ , _can’t know for certain._

Was it the first pillar she hit? Izumi wants to squeeze her eyes shut but they aren’t there anymore. Blood smudges her cheekbones, the underside of her brow. Did the scratching on the stone really look like silver? There’s another click, louder, a sound she would recognize everywhere. Her chin presses against her collarbone, her shoulders are shaking restlessly. His foot falls onto her right cheek, presses her face deeper into the dirt—but it’s wet and slimy, _sick-smelling_. She can’t hear him anymore, but there’s a fast gush of wind, the flap of his sleeves through the air. Steel cuts through her throat, bites itself stuck on the vertebrae in her neck, unable to saw through. Her cognitive functions start to break down, a blur of memories, a fading sense of the fact that she has fingertips and that she can move them.

_Izumi, who’s here?_


End file.
